Then he decided to rid himself of us for good. "I will assume the
responsibility for you," he said, affixed his signature on the spot, to
spare himself a second visit, and, collecting his fees, bowed us out. I
suppose he argued that we should have known the ropes and attended to
all details accurately, in order to ward off suspicion, had we been
suspicious characters. How could he know that the Americans understood
Russian, and that this plain act of "getting rid" of us would weigh on
our minds all the way to the Russian frontier?

At Wirballen the police evoked a throb of gratitude from our relieved
hearts. No one seemed to suspect that the American government owned a
consul in Berlin who could write his name on our huge parchments, which
contrasted so strongly with the compact little documents from other
lands.

"Which are your passports?" asked the tall gendarme who guarded the door
of the restaurant, as we passed out to take our seats in the Russian
train.

"The biggest," I replied, without mentioning names, and he handed them
over with a grin. No fuss over passports or custom-house, though we had
carefully provided cause! This was beginning badly, and we were
disappointed at our tame experience.

On our arrival in St. Petersburg, we were not even asked for our
passports. Curiosity became restless within us. Was there some sinister
motive in this neglect, after the harrowing tales we had heard from a
woman lecturer, and read in books which had actually got themselves
printed, about gendarmes forcing themselves into people's rooms while